Memento Mori
by doritoFace1q
Summary: Few things interested the world's greatest mind, but a mysterious organization, unfortunate siblings, and a trail of bodies certainly took the cake. Little did L know that very soon, after jumping feet-first into the Baudelaire case, he would be far too entangled to have even a hope of ever getting out. . . alive, at least. AU. ON HIATUS.
1. Chapter 1: The Greatest Mind

Welcome to my first AU! Which just happens to be a crossover, because why not :) This story was suggested by my amazing friend a nd proofreader, who I talk about in basically every story XD Seriously, though, she's amazing, and the prompt for a SOUE/Death Note crossover was just to good to ignore.

Just one thing before we start: **I have not read the books in their entirety**. I'm a huge bookworm, but I've never actually read the whole SOUE, meaning that all the information I use for this story will be taken from either the Netflix show (because I heard that the movie was inaccurate) or the Lemony Snicket Wiki. So please do tell me if I get anything wrong. However, I will also be altering some aspects of the story and timelines, so make sure to check if I've mentioned making changes before going to the reviews.

* * *

What makes someone a genius? Is it the extraordinary intellect? A wealth of awe-inspiring logic? Can someone become a genius? And if so, how? Do they work themselves to the bone until they're sweaty and tired? Or do they study, until their minds are numb, and they've finally grasped that fleeting, flickering _something_? Or perhaps geniuses cannot be made; perhaps they are simply born. Perhaps they are born with that ultimate _something_ , the _it_ that allows them to grasp concepts like straws, and flow smoothly between talents.

Well, whatever _it_ was, L certainly had it.

Maybe too much of it, he often found himself thinking as he sifted through the endless wonderings of the world. He had often been called the holder of the world's greatest mind and that, to some extent, may well have been true. But one drag that came with his terrifying genius was that he simply couldn't bring himself to _care_. The world spun with thoughts of trivial, meaningless things that most people found fascinating. To L, however, they were naught but foolish. Conspiracies? Debunked with simple logic. Legends? Both scientifically and literally impossible. Aliens? Real, obviously. Criss Angel's career?

Well, that last one was still something of a mystery even to him. . .

But, aside from the (somehow) persisting career or an incompetent magician, the rest of the world was a dull wasteland to him. Day in, day out, he solved cases. The names and faces changed, but the circumstances never did. The closest thing he ever got to an _interesting_ day was when a serial killer, psychopath, or other type of megalomaniac decided that they wanted to try some new way of disemboweling a child or try a different method in stopping the heart of a victim.

Suffice it to say that there was very little that could interest L – for longer than a few minutes, anyways. However, when something did catch his eye, it was guaranteed to be quite extraordinary. . . or just weird.

He wasn't quite sure which category _this_ case fell into. He leaned forwards, nose barely an inch from the screen of his laptop, running a finger over his lip. "Well, now," he murmured to himself, a grin spreading across his face. "Isn't this interesting?"

xxx

L squatted in one of the many seats on his great (and empty) private jet, leaning back against the seatback. His head was turned towards the window, and he watched as the plane dipped down, descending towards the ground. They passed through the clouds, and a soft, rueful smile appeared on L's face as he saw the rolling hills, gentle green pastures, and swaying wooded forests. _Such a lovely image_ , he thought, finding himself uncharacteristically sentimental. _Could such a horrible story truly take place in such a beautiful setting_? He pulled his legs closer, putting his arms on his knees and tucking his chin on top of them. He knew the answer.

 _Yes_.

It always could.

A ding resonated throughout the hollow cabin, and Watari's voice sounded through the speakers. "We shall make our landing in about two minutes," he informed him. "I've had M bring a car to the airstrip; we should be at the hotel in about two hours."

L nodded quietly to himself, fully aware that Watari couldn't see him. "Is M in America?" he asked, raising his voice over the roar of the engines so the transmitters could catch the words.

"Yes."

"His counterpart?"

"I'm assuming so. N is currently in Canada, as well; a six-hour flight from here."

"That's good," L remarked, turning his head back to the window as the plane neared the ground. "I'm going to need some help on the outside for this case, and, judging from the current state of affairs, I'm willing to wager that the authorities here are rather incompetent."

"I shall call in N, then." Watari declared, and there was a crackle as the speakers turned off. L closed his eyes, feeling his stomach drop as they landed on the private airstrip, coasting along the runway. He held the case file in his hand, pitiful and weak compared to any other case he had ever taken on. The entire file was comprised of newspaper clippings, photographs, some bank files, and what looked like pieces of a children's notebook, none of which made remotely any sense.

He grinned as the plane came to a stop. This case was not only interesting: it was a challenge. And he liked a challenge. _I'm going to solve this case, no matter what_ , he decided. _I've never failed at a task, and I'm not going to stop now, just because I've got next to nothing to work with_. He stood up and walked down the aisle.

 _I'm going to find you, Baudelaires_.


	2. Chapter 2: On the Edge

Just FYI, in this fanfic, the freaks never joined Olaf, Olaf didn't take Sunny, and the Baudelaires are walking the whole way to VFD headquarters.

Because why not.

* * *

Klaus trudged forwards, lungs burning and legs quaking with exhaustion. He took step after step, limbs heavy as if full of liquid lead. Finally, he crumpled, landing on the ground and lying down, not caring that his already filthy clothes were covered in a fresh coat of mountain dirt and dust. "I can't do this anymore," he gasped. "I need to take a break."

Violet stopped, sitting down next to him and putting Sunny on the ground. Sunny crawled over to lie down in between her two older siblings, closing her eyes with exhaustion.

"It's no use," Violet groaned, leaning back against the rocky mountainside. "We're never going to make it to VFD headquarters before Count Olaf."

"He's probably there already," Klaus said dejectedly, sitting up with a sigh. "Killed everyone there and burnt the place to the ground."

"But Olivia said that the headquarters are abandoned," Sunny pointed out. "So maybe he hasn't killed anyone."

"He still could have burnt the place down," Klaus said. "Everything we've been looking for could go up in flames because he gets there first!"

"Klaus," Violet said. "We can't give up. We've already come this far. We can't go back; the only option is to push forwards."

"We _have_ been pushing forwards!" Klaus shouted, and Violet flinched. "We've been pushing forwards ever since that fire, and we've gotten _nothing_!" he hit the ground next to him in a rare fit of rage.

"Klaus, please," Violet pleaded.

Klaus looked down and blinked the tears out of his eyes. "I'm sorry," he said, taking his glasses off and roughly wiping the heel of his hand across his face. "You're right. I'm sorry. Let's keep going – what else have we got to lose?" he stood up, smiling weakly, and picked up Sunny.

Violet smiled and held out her hand. Klaus pulled her up, and the trio continued to follow the tire tracks imprinted in the dusty road of the mountain path.

 _This is all we have left_.

xxx

Mello leaned back in his seat, draping an arm over the steering wheel. Matt kicked his feet up in the passenger's seat next to him, lighting a cigarette and dangling it out of the side of his mouth. "Why've we got to talk to this guy, anyways?" he asked, blowing a wave of smoke in Mello's direction.

Mello wrinkled his nose and waved the smoke away. "Put that out. If you start a fire in my car, I swear to god I'll murder you in your sleep." Matt shrugged and flicked the cigarette out the open window. "And this man's the guy who's been involved in the Baudelaire case since the beginning: he's Vice President of Orphan Affairs, and the one who's brought them to all their different guardians, done the papers, et cetera." Mello peered over the rim of his dark sunglasses to look at the small house they were parked right outside. "If anyone knows where they are, it's him."

"And if he doesn't?" Matt asked.

Mello narrowed his eyes as another car pulled up, parking right in front of them. A dark-haired man got out of the car, straightening his hat and heading for the door. "We'll soon find out." Mello got out of the rickety station wagon, slamming the door behind him hard enough to make the rusty old vehicle he had salvaged from the junkyard shake on its wheels. "Mr. Poe!" he called. "Mr. Poe! A word, please!"

Arthur Poe turned around, starting at the leather-clad young man jogging towards him. "Er, may I help you?" he asked, glancing uneasily at Mello's provocative attire, eyes lingering on the holster at his belt.

"Yes, you may," Mello tugged out his wallet, flipping to one of the many fake IDs he carried around with him as Matt appeared behind him. "Michael Fuchs, FBI. And this is my partner, Matthew Jones. We have some questions for you."

Mr. Poe looked positively dumbstruck. "FBI?" he spluttered. "But, I'm sure that I haven't done anything wrong! Is this about the crow in the Village of Fowl Devotees? Because we brought it to a vet, and last I heard, it was doing just fine, could even breathe on its own –"

"No, Mr. Poe," Matt interrupted. "We wanted to ask some questions about the Baudelaires."

Mr. Poe stared at them for a moment, mouth open. Finally, he said, "So, this _is_ about the crow?"

Mello felt like hitting himself. Even _R_ was smarter than this guy. "No, Mr. Poe. We're currently working on a case investigating the series of events that have been occurring and are all, in one way or another, connected to the Baudelaires."

" _Oh_ ," Mr. Poe clasped his hands, looking at the sky, in an _of_ course _, why didn't I get it before_? kind of way. "Of _course_ , why didn't I get it before?"

"Can you please tell us everything about the Baudelaires? Please start with fire that claimed Bertrand and Beatrice." Mello nodded at Matt, who flipped open a notebook and held the pen over the paper.

"Well, now," Mr. Poe looked rather pleased to have an audience as she swung his arms at his side. "It all started when the parents perished in a terrible fire. . ."

xxx

Mello shut the door of the car with a grunt. Matt sat down next to him, sighing with dissatisfaction. "That," he decided. "Was painful."

Mello snorted in agreement. "I think I lost a few brain cells just listening to him talk."

"Indeed," a filtered voice spoke through a speaker from within Mello's jacket. "That was next to useless."

"So, I guess you didn't get anything?" Mello asked grudgingly.

"Unfortunately, that was nothing but two hours of absolutely worthless rambling." L sighed. "But, perhaps the notes that Matt took could help. Please bring them back to the hotel. You may remove the wire, now, Mello." there was a crackle to signify the end of the transmission.

Mello sighed, tugging the wire out from underneath his fur-lined coat. "Well, that was a waste of time."

"I will never look at a crow the same way again." Matt agreed as Mello floored the station wagon, kicking the gas pedal to get it started.

xxx

She opened the door of her car and rushed out, scarf fluttering in the wind behind her. _Please no, please no, please no,_ she prayed as she raced towards the Caligari Carnival.

She stopped dead as her face was hit with a wave of heat. The roar of flames filled her ears as she stared, horrorstruck, at the sight before her.

The tents crumpled as they were consumed by the inferno, falling with the rickety old roller coaster, which was steadily vanishing as walls of fire charged down the tracks. Not even the frames of the tents were spared for, as she watched, tongues of flame licked up the metal rods, turning them as flimsy and weak as the sheets that fell from them.

She stood there, sweat running down her face, as the symbol of the once-noble organization was swallowed by the inferno of its own making. _No fire department could put this horror out_.

* * *

Who do you think this mystery woman is? It should be pretty obvious, but if you have any not-so-common ideas. . .


	3. Chapter 3: A Fruitless Search

Near twirled a lock of his fluffy white hair around his finger, biting his lip as he sifted through sheets of notebook paper, occasionally sighing with annoyance as notes were cut off mid-sentence by the hole torn through the papers.

 _This is_. . . he shuddered slightly as he came across a sketch of a sugar bowl. _This can't be_. _It's been so long_. . . he absentmindedly scratched at his left ankle.

"Well?" L's voice broke through his thoughts. "Have you got anything?"

Near shook his head. "Nothing," he said. "Even with Matt and Mello's reports, I still can't make head or tail of any of this." he sighed. "Also, Arthur Poe knows nothing about keeping records. Even A wouldn't have been able to get any valuable information from them."

L nodded, looking dissatisfied. "Well, I've been going through all the records looking for mentions about VFD," he said, and Near stiffened. "Nothing, so far," Near repressed his sigh of relief. "There are lots of different things that are connected to the children, with the acronyms VFD, but," he sighed. "None of them feel right."

"You're going to base your whole investigation on a gut feeling?"

L shot him an exasperated look. "So, I suppose Count Olaf murdered more than half a dozen people over _very fancy doilies_?"

"I stand corrected."

"In any case," L sat down in the seat next to Near in his traditional crouch. "We can't really confirm anything until Matt and Mello talk to someone who actually knows something."

"Well, then, I guess we're in luck," Near said, nodding at the screen, where a live feed from a hidden camera on Mello's coat showed the pair walking up to a picturesque little house. "The next one's the person who submitted the case."

xxx

Mello walked up to the front door of the house, glancing at the white picket fences, spotless siding, and cherry blossom tree. "This place belongs on the front page of a magazine," he said.

"Unlike _that_ ," Matt grumbled glancing to the right at the looming, haunted-looking shack directly next door. "I mean, who designed that thing?"

Mello shrugged, ringing the doorbell and listening to the chime from inside. "Coming!" a voice rang from inside, and the door opened.

"Oh, my," the woman who had opened the door looked up at the two young men looming over her. "You two look like hooligans," she said, appraising them. "Do you have a permit for that?" she asked Mello, looking at the gun at his belt.

Mello pulled out his collection of IDs. "Michael Fuchs, FBI. And this is my partner, Matthew –"

"Um, Mells?"

Mello shot Matt a confused glance from the corner of his eye. _What happened to our aliases_? "What is it, _Matthew_?" he asked, putting emphasis on the name.

"That says Micah Müller."

Mello flipped the wallet around and cursed. Ignoring the scandalized look that the woman was giving him, he shoved the wallet back in his pocket, fuming. _Damn! I showed her the wrong ID! That's the one for the NYPD_! He looked at the woman, then Matt. _What do we do now_?

"Did you just try to show me a _fake ID_?" the woman sounded furious. "How _dare_ you diverge from the law –"

"Oh, bugger," Matt sighed, pulling out his own wallet and flipping to a single card. He held it out in front of him, displaying a single Old English letter M. "I'm Matt, and this is Mello. We're associates of L, and we're helping him investigate the Baudelaire case." Mello sighed, flipping his wallet open to display his own Gothic style M.

"You're associates of the alphabet?" the judge sounded absolutely lost.

"L. The detective."

"Oh!" the judge said, clapping her hands together as she understood what they were saying. "Yes! By all mean, do come in." she stepped back, gesturing inside.

Mello and Matt stepped in, glancing around the tidy, comfortable hall. "I'm so glad that my case made it to L – they say he's never failed." she said as Matt and Mello stepped inside. "The library is this way, if you wish to talk there," she added, leading them down the hallway. "The children did love the library," she sighed wistfully as she pushed open the door. Matt let out a low whistle of appreciation, and Mello raised an eyebrow as he appraised the room that would have made Near's jaw drop.

"We have some questions for you, miss. . ." Matt trailed off, looking helplessly at Mello, who shrugged, pulling a chair out from beneath the table and sitting himself down.

"Strauss," the judge said. "Justice Strauss."

"Right," Mello said, as Matt started scribbling in his notebook. "And is Justice your real name?"

"Oh, no, it's my title." Strauss waved her hand. "But I much prefer it to my true name; the law means more to me than anything."

"So, why call yourself Justice?" Matt asked, looking over the top of his notebook. "Why not Law, instead?"

"Because justice is always served by the law," Strauss said, a tone of certainty in her voice.

"Not always," Mello pointed out. "Do you think we would need to do what we do if the law was always right?"

"But it is," Strauss said firmly.

"Really," Mello said, leaning forwards on his elbows. "What about that time that you almost married Violet Baudelaire off to Count Olaf, and wouldn't do anything about it because it was 'the law'?" a vile taste filled his mouth as he spoke the words _Count Olaf_ , and his left foot twitched instinctively.

The judge stiffened. "I was tricked by Count Olaf," she said, her voice bearing an edge of steel. "I never would have harmed the children on purpose."

"So, you admit that the Count was the one who seduced you into bending the law – albeit, unknowingly – and almost handing him the Baudelaire fortune on a silver platter?" Mello asked.

"Well, I don't know about being _seduced_ –"

"Ms. Strauss, we would like to ask you to tell us everything you know about the Baudelaire case, and I mean everything. We already have two versions of events, but we're sure that there's more to the story than what we're being told." Mello's icy blue eyes burrowed into her dull pale ones.

"I –"

"This information could help save their lives." Mello interrupted. He widened his eyes, trying to look innocent and/or pleading. "Please, Justice – if you truly do care about them, then you need to tell us everything you know."

Justice Strauss bit her lip, looking hesitant, before sighing. "Very well," she said finally. "Now, let's see; I first met the orphans on the day that their parents died. . ."


	4. Chapter 4: Enter the Past

No Baudelaires in this chapter, unfortunately. I wasn't sure what kind of deep, meaningful stuff I could get them to do/say when they're literally just walking through the mountains, so. . . ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ

* * *

Lemony stood in the dark, once-grand ballroom of the now dim and gloomy headquarters. The fuses had long since blown, and the sole source of light was a candle flickering on the dusty bar, stuck in an empty spirit bottle to remain upright. The flickering flame illuminated the photos, newspaper clippings and notes pinned up all over the walls of the room, paint flaking off where he had pushed the pins in. Strings connected photos, papers, and notes, looping around pins and chasing ends across the walls, desperately grabbing at straws to form something semblance to a coherent hypothesis, something to reach the Baudelaires before Olaf.

He clenched his fists, leaning forwards on the bar. His knuckles brushed something, and he looked down, tense face softening into a sad smile. He picked up the photograph from the counter, the only one that didn't have anything to do with the children. . . directly, at least.

Jacque's arm was thrown around Bertrand, who was laughing at a joke that Ike had just told him. Josephine held Ike's hand, speaking intently to Larry, who looked more than a bit intimidated. Esmé was examining her fingernails, looking utterly bored as Kit chattered excitedly, her arm resting casually on Olaf's shoulder. Lemony himself held Beatrice's hand, smiling softly at her as she laughed that beautiful, tinkling laugh. Scrawled across the lower left-hand corner of the yellowing photograph were the words, _Best volunteers EVER! This certainly_ isn't _a sad occasion; happy birthday, Lemony. Love, Beatrice_.

Lemony sighed, tracing the faces on the old photograph. _So many gone, both from this world and this side_. He tucked the photo back into his pocket. _Don't worry, Beatrice. I'll find them_.

 _Or die trying_.

xxx

Olaf got out of the car with a snarl of fury, kicking the wheel. "Who serviced this car?" he snapped as his henchmen scrabbled out.

"The serviceman," one of the White-Face Women said.

"Or servicewoman," the other one piped in.

"I don't care what gender the serviceperson was!" Olaf growled. "All I care about is that this car is less reliable than Arthur Poe, and twice as slow! We will never reach headquarters in time!"

"Oh, darling, it's fine," Esmé waved a long-fingered hand casually, wrinkling her nose as Fernald opened the door, offering a hook to help her out. She brushed him away, standing up. "Headquarters won't be going anywhere."

"But _Snicket_ might!" Olaf snapped. "If we don't get there before those wretched children, then everything could go out the window!"

"Darling –"

"He's the last Snicket, love," Olaf said. "Tha _last Snicket_. Do you know what that means?"

"That the other ones are dead?" Lucafont offered.

"No, you fool!" Olaf snarled. "A _Snicket_ was the last person in possession of the sugar bowl! And he's the _last one_!"

"The sugar bowl?" Emsé's eyes lit up. "Lemony Snicket has the sugar bowl?"

"Who else?" Olaf said, feeling as if he was at the end of his rope.

Esmé's eyes widened with the intensity of a hunting dog. "Darling, in the car! Everybody else, get out and push! Oh, suck it up!" she added as the rest of the acting troupe grumbled and complained, but got out of the car anyways, unwilling to risk Esmé's wrath.

She got into the passenger's seat next to Olaf, adjusting her dusty, no longer in dress. "Push harder, you bums!" she shouted as the car began grinding forwards.

xxx

L paced the room intently, teeth digging into his skin so hard that Near feared he would break the skin soon if he didn't stop.

"L, calm down," Near said, trying to reason with the frantic detective. "This is getting us nowhere."

"Yeah, chill," Mello piped in, his image looking up from the live feed streaming from Matt's cell phone. "Pacing isn't going to make us look any harder."

"It's not the _looking_ I'm concerned about, it's the case itself!" L said, turning on his heel. "I can't make heads or tails out of it! The evidence is weak, the witnesses are fools, and the statements are all about as similar as a flying purple elephant and a glass of Scotch!"

"Blimey, he's not kidding, is he?" Mello said, in more of a statement than a question, leaning in closer to the wall, holding his flashlight up to peer at a photograph. "Do you think this piano's important?"

"It's cool, take it," Matt said, and Mello shrugged, plucking the photograph off the wall.

"Honestly, L, you're the three greatest detectives of the age. If anyone can figure out this mess, it's you." Matt said, the footage shaking as the pair clumped down the stairs. "Just calm down, have some tea with your sugar, and boom, you'll have solved the case in no time."

"Mello, I've made a _murder board_ ," L said, utterly exasperated. "I have made a murder board for a case with an unknown number of victims, suspects, and witnesses. I have made a murder board for a case with practically no evidence. I have made a murder board! When is the last time I made a murder board?"

"1999," Near grumbled. "You used my bulletin board."

"A _murder board_!" L all but shrieked.

"Well, I couldn't care less how you plot your case, whether it's on a computer, a bulletin board, or the backside of a turquoise hippogriff, but can you _please_ stop shouting?" Mello asked as the pair walked towards a huge, complex door, covered from top to bottom with complex gears, buttons, lever, pin pads, scanners, and god knows what else.

"Impressive," Mello said.

"I agree," Near said.

"Here, hold this," the footage was jostled as Matt passed the phone to Mello, who held it up as Matt leaned against the door, knocking on different parts. He put his face next to a wire, lifting his orange goggles. "Pass the torch," he said, holding out his hand. He held the light up to one of the wires, angling it so it travelled along the wire, down to a bomb nested on a small, outjutting ledge.

There was a sharp intake of breath as Mello stepped back. "Matt, get away from there." L ordered.

Matt laughed. "It's fine, Mels. And, L, you wouldn't be so stressed if you were here. Look – Mels come closer." Mello hesitantly shuffled forwards and Matt lifted the sticks of dynamite from the ledge. "Listen," he tapped the sticks. "They're hollow. And plastic."

"So I see," L murmured, looking genuinely impressed as his thumb drifted away from his mouth. "Montgomery Montgomery certainly was quite the intelligent individual."

"Nobody would ever expect that all these defenses are fake; they are quite impressive replicas, after all. Even Mels was fooled." Matt ripped the fake dynamite away from the wires and tossed it carelessly over his shoulder. "Looks like the only real line of defense on this door is the lock." he turned the doorknob, and the door swung easily open. "And even that's unlocked."

"I can see why," Near commented as the pair stepped into the room, Mello bringing the phone around in an arc that would have made any YouTuber proud. "It's empty."

And so, it was. What surely must have once been a beautiful and impressive room was now empty and cold, a mere shell of its former glory. Almost everything had been carted out of the room, leaving the room hollow and echoing. There were deep scratches on the ground where cages and furniture seemed to have been dragged out. All that remained in the room were a few empty cages, a dusty cupboard, and a pile of forlorn takeout boxes piled in the corner.

"Looks like they took all the reptiles after Montgomery died," Matt commented as they walked in.

"Not all of them," Mello wrinkled his nose, pointing at a dead lizard on the ground, in between stages of decomposition.

"Oh, gross."

"Please go check the cupboard," L said as Matt lifted the rug half-heartedly. "There is a possibility that some items of importance may remain."

"Roger that," Mello strode across the vast room, tugging open the glass doors. "Just a load of bottles," he said, tilting his head to check the corners as Matt poked his head over his shoulder.

"Not just any bottles," Near said, squinting at the labels. Matt picked up a bottle, wiping the dust and grime away from the name.

"The cotton ball's right," Matt said, handing the bottle to Mello, who passed the phone back. "It's snake venom," he panned over all the bottles in the cupboard. "They all are."

"What's this?" Mello picked up a strange contraption from the ground next to the cupboard. "Looks like a dual syringe," he commented, he said, holding it up in front of the eyes. "It's broken," he noticed, holding it up in front of the phone camera. "I don't think they meant to leave it here. The cops must have dropped it in the confusion."

"Don't cut yourself on the edge, Mello," L cautioned. "Dr. Montgomery was killed after being injected by deadly snake venom. I suspect that is the device that Count Olaf used. There may still be some venom on the glass." Mello quickly moved his hand away from the shattered vial.

"Here," Matt propped the phone up on a shelf of the cupboard. He slung his backpack onto the ground, pulling an evidence bag and a pair of rubber gloves out of the front pocket. He tossed the items to Mello, who caught them and slipped the gloves on with ease. "How much of the venom do you need, L?" he asked, busying himself with filling another evidence bag with vials.

"As many as you can carry; if you can't take them all, then bring at least one sample of each type." L specified.

"Gotcha," Mello replied, taking off his own pack and kneeling on the ground to put the weapon in. He was just about to stand up when he frowned, noticing something under the cupboard.

"Mello?" Matt asked, glancing down at his friend.

"Hold up," Mello lay down on his stomach, sticking his arm under the cupboard and feeling around. "I think I found – aha!" he tugged out to slim objects.

"What did you find?" L asked.

"Check this out," Mello stood up, holding the two objects up in front of the phone.

"The camera's facing front, idiot," Near said.

"Whoops," Matt said sheepishly, reversing the camera.

"What about now?" Mello asked, waving the two objects: a picture frame and a notebook.

The notebook was as plain as could be; unrevealing black cover and yellowing pages covered in tiny, messy notes and sketches of snakes. However, on a few pages, there were cryptic scribblings and diagrams of odd, distinctively un-snakelike objects. The photo was of the late Montgomery Montgomery standing in the jungle, holding a strange sort of spyglass up to his eye.

"That's a weird spyglass," Near frowned.

"That's a weird _photo_ ," Matt said, leaning closer.

"Well, Dr. Montgomery was known for going on solo expeditions to study exotic snakes," Mello commented, dropping the photo and book into his backpack.

"But if he was on a solo, snake-seeing expedition, who took the picture?" L asked.

* * *

Just a random question, but I've been listening to a lot of Felix Cartal lately, and I feel like his song _Runaway_ (featuring REGN) from his new album totally suits Light. What do you think? _(ツ)/ Also, _Mood_ is definitely Mello's jam XD


	5. Chapter 5: Questions, Motives, and Actio

From here on out, the fanfiction will be based on the Netflix show 99.8 percent of the time. FIGHT ME.

* * *

Mello got out of the car, slamming the door behind him, coughing as he waved his hand, clearing the foul-smelling smoke that poured from the exhaust pipe of the station wagon. "Damn," he sighed, bending down to assess the damage. "Looks like the extra ten pounds of evidence was too much for her. Oh, well," he stood up as Matt got out of the car, wrinkling his nose at the stench of gasoline. "She's pretty much parked anyways."

The pair strolled into the hotel, breezing right past the woman at the front desk, who wrinkled her nose at the smell the two brought in.

They got into the elevator and pushed the button for the top floor. Matt slid his keycard into the slot, and they shot straight up. They stepped out of the elevator right into the grand hall of the penthouse suite of the hotel.

"Hey," Matt greeted as they entered the room they were using as the office. L nodded in greeting from his perch on one of the couches, eyes reflecting the illumination of his laptop. Near pointed wordlessly at the ashtray on his desk as he played silently with his finger puppets.

"So, this just in," Mello said casually, flopping onto one of the other couches that L hadn't occupied. "Buffy's triple parked with a busted motor."

"Buffy?" L asked, looking up from his laptop, looking bewildered.

"Buffy. My car."

"I thought you called her Bloody Murder," Matt said, crushing his cigarette in the ashtray and blowing a ring of smoke at Near.

"I was calling her the Zit," Near coughed, waving the smoke away from his face.

"I didn't even know that you named it," L grumbled standing up and closing his laptop. "Matt, Mello. Show me what you collected today."

"Right," Mello opened his bag and started pulling out the photographs he had taken from various place around the house. Matt followed suit and started taking out the bags of venom. Eventually, the group wound up with a table covered in mismatched objects, photos, and other oddities.

L handed the bags of venom to Near. "Near, please categorize these according to deadliness." he nodded and headed back to the desk. L pushed the teetering stack of photographs to Matt. "Matt, please put these in two piles: relevant to the case, and irrelevant. Then, sort the relevant ones according to what you believe to be important." Matt nodded and sat down in the middle of the rug, spreading the photos out around him. L handed the notebook to Mello. "Please find whatever notes that Dr. Montgomery had that could be related to the case and write them down on index cards. Scan any diagrams he drew." Mello nodded and got to work.

L himself stood at the table, examining the weapon that had taken the herpetologist's life. _Such wicked, yet brilliant inventions_ , he thought, snapping a picture of it with his cell phone. _I wonder_. . . he opened up his computer, getting to work printing out all the photographs that the boys had taken that day, along with the one of the weapon. _All of these unfortunate events revolving around the Baudelaires_. . . _is it truly just because of one villain's greed? That seems to be the most logical explanation, but it doesn't explain why all these other, seemingly random people keep getting involved_. The printer beeped, and L made to pin the photos up on the murder board (god, he hated the thing). _It also doesn't explain how all these people all seem to have history with the Baudelaire family. It's like they're all interconnected_. He pulled a pin across the board, wrapping the string tight. _The evidence is for these connections is too weak to be called concrete evidence, but not quite enough to be written off, either_. He sighed, pinning up another photo. _Damn this case_.

xxx

A few hours later, the four detectives stood in front of L's murder, board, eyes travelling along the strings, attention leaping from photograph to note to report.

"This," Mello finally said after about ten minutes of awkward silence. "Is excessive." L snorted in response.

"It's not enough," Near said. "Even after all this, we still don't have any concrete ideas as to. . . well, anything."

"The Count's not making it easy for us," Mello growled. "He's eliminated everybody who could give us any proper evidence."

"I think that's the point, Mels," Matt said.

L sighed. "Three sources down," he leaned over and crossed out _Montgomery Montgomery's house_ on a list he had pinned up in the lower corner of the board. "Five to go."

xxx

She stood on the edge of the pit, looking down into the charred hole. _Such a tragedy_.

The smoky remains of Olivia Caliban lay at the bottom of the pit, surrounded by the charred lions that had been but a tool in her murder. She fell to her knees, closing her eyes in a silent prayer. _I'm sorry. If only I had been quicker_. _This is my fault_.

She allowed herself a moment to grieve, before quickly standing up, brushing the ash from her pants. She rushed to the remains of the Madam Lulu tent, stepping over the collapsed frame, eyes searching through the wreckage. _Please, please, please, let there be something_.

Her heart lifted for a moment when she found a roll of film lying underneath a pile of delicate, ashy threads, only to fall once she realized that the film had all melted and clumped together, forming an unusable pile of plastic.

She left empty-handed.

xxx

"Well," Mello said, peering off the edge of the cliff. "That's inconvenient."

"Indeed," L agreed, frowning at the footage. "Matt, be careful, don't drop your phone."

"Now I'm nervous," Matt sighed, pulling the phone back away from where he had been holding it over the edge.

"Seriously, how does a whole house just _fall off_ a cliff?" Mello asked, leaning precariously close to the edge. "I mean, it just doesn't make sense!"

"Well, to be fair, there was barely a foot of the actual house _on_ the actual cliff," Matt offered. "Add that to the hurricane, and it was a pretty predictable fate. Gravity does things, you know."

Near sighed. "This certainly complicates things."

"No kidding."

"Nobody in the town seems to know anything about Joesphine Anwhistle, except that she was a freakishly paranoid and loved grammar." Matt said.

"Of course, we can't really confirm anything, since all the evidence is somewhere at the bottom of the lake," Mello grumbled.

"This sucks; now we can't even get into the house." Matt sighed.

"Unless. . ." Mello trailed off, a smile spreading across his face and eyes lighting up.

"What is it, Mello?" L asked as Matt turned the phone's camera to Mello.

"I have an idea," Mello said.

xxx

Larry wound through the underground tunnels with ease, weaving through the twists and turns he had known since he was a child. He stopped in the chamber where he normally met Jacquelyn and stood, waiting.

As usual, she did not disappoint. She was approaching him within minutes, walking briskly down the tunnel in her secretary's outfit. "Larry," she greeted him.

"Jacquelyn," he nodded. "Why the sudden meeting?"

"We have reports that there are two young men going around, asking a lot of questions about the Baudelaires." Jacquelyn said. "And, from the looks of it, they already know quite a bit. They've been to see Arthur Poe, Justice Strauss, and even broken into Montgomery Montgomery's house. Last we heard, they were headed for Lake Lachrymose. There's a high chance that they're looking for connections to Josephine Anwhistle."

"They'll have a hard time with that; I was told the Anwhistle house fell into the lake." Larry commented.

"It did. But I'm certain that won't stop them. They appear to be very resourceful and have much higher than average intellect." Jacquelyn said.

"Do we have their names?" Larry asked.

"They use a different name every time they speak to a new person. They're most likely all aliases. But when they spoke to Justice Strauss, they claimed to be the two halves of the alias M."

Larry's heart skipped a beat. "M. . . as in, M. Snicket?"

"It's a possibility, but very slim." Jacquelyn replied. "After all, there's only one living Snicket left."

"I suppose that's true," Larry sighed. "But then, why the letters?"

"Our source overheard them say that they were associates of the detective, L." Jacquelyn said.

Larry's eyes widened to the size of saucers. "L?" he croaked hoarsely. "As in, world's greatest detective L?"

"The one and only."

"This is bad," Larry said. "L's known worldwide for being able to crack any case he's given; heck, some people say that he could find the Zodiac killer if he put his mind to it."

"Exactly. And if these boys are telling the truth, then he's on Olaf's tail." Jacquelyn said. "And if he's tracking the Baudelaires, then he'll find out about the VFD sooner or later, which we cannot afford."

"So, what's the mission?"

"Get rid of any and all evidence linking the Baudelaire case to the VFD," Jacquelyn said. "And that's _all_ the evidence. We don't know how much he has right now, so we need to be as thorough as possible. We need him to think that any connections he sees right now are merely coincidences."

"That won't be enough to throw him off the trail," Larry said.

"I know," Jacquelyn lifted her chin defiantly. "But it should throw him off for a bit."

"Yes, ma'am," Larry turned to walk back down the tunnel.

"Oh – Larry, wait!"

Larry turned around to face Jacquelyn again. "What is it?"

"I'm sorry, I almost forgot." Jacquelyn said. "One of the boys. . . there's a distinct possibility he's been involved with the VFD before."

* * *

I got the car names for Buffy/Bloody Murder/the Zit from , because I feel like Mello is definitley a car enthusiast.


	6. Chapter 6: Very Fun Diving

Quite the long chapter we've got here! It looked longer in Word, though *withers

* * *

"I hate your ideas," Matt grumbled.

The two waddled down the slippery rocks, sliding down some of the slicker ones they were unable to climb. The reason they were waddling was evident; they were dressed from head to toe in diving gear. A skintight wetsuit hugged their forms as they awkwardly made their way down to the bottom of the cliff where the Anwhistle home had previously sat. Their flippers flapped against the stones that formed the lower half of the cliff, and their air tanks clunked distractingly against the rocky face.

"Don't worry, Matt, you look smashing," Near's amused voice said from the earpiece wedged in his ear. "You too, Mello." Mello held a glove-covered middle finger up in front of the camera attached to his wet suit.

"All right, we're here," Matt stopped next to the waves splashing against the shore. "You first, genius."

"Gladly," Mello's lifted his chin, tugging the mask over his face. "I've always wanted to go scuba diving," he commented, voice muffled as he inserted the mouthpiece of the air tube in his mouth. "Whuh?" he asked as laughing erupted from Matt, Near, and even L.

"Nothing," L muttered, hand over his mouth to contain his chuckles as he watched Mello shuffle to the side of the water. "Carry on. And don't forget to turn on the light."

"Vhil du."

xxx

L watched as the boys kicked through the water, searching for the fallen house. Suddenly, he leaned forwards. "Matt, your left – no, the other left – the _right_ , damnit. Swim that way."

Matt grumbled something indistinguishable, kicking his way through the dark, murky waters towards the door peering from the darkness. Mello joined him, and the pair tugged on the door.

"Maybe try turning the handle," Near offered mock-helpfully.

Mello kicked his way down a bit to poke around at the bottom of the lake. He soon remerged, holding a rock in one hand. He raised it, whacking the door repeatedly until there was a cracking noise. A stream of bubbles emerged from the split in the door, and the pair tugged away at splinters of wood as water rapidly began filling the house.

They slipped through the hole in the door with ease, carried by the flow of lakewater that poured through with them, flooding the house and splashing along the walls.

The two let the water carry them silently through the house, until they reached the end of the hallway. Mello grabbed onto the side of a staircase railing, and then Mello. The pair awkwardly fumbled their way up the stairs as the water began roaring into the hallway, smashing against the walls and sending photographs flying.

They stumbled, duck-footed through the upstairs hallway, sliding undignifiedly down the sloping floor. Matt tugged his breathing tube out of his mouth. "You do that room, I do this one," Mello nodded his agreement and Matt shoved the tube back in his mouth, hurriedly waddling into the bedroom.

"Look around the room, collect anything salvageable, photograph whatever you can't take," L ordered, and the pair complied frantically, grabbing books and photographs, yanking open drawers and shoving whatever they could into the array of wet bags they had had the foresight to bring along.

The water was beginning to flow down the hallway when Matt suddenly remembered the journal they had found under Montgomery Montgomery's cabinet. He fumbled down the sloped floor and peered underneath the furniture. He had discovered a handful of dust bunnies and was about to stand up when he noticed a dusty, leather-bound book lying against the wall at the very bottom, beneath the bed. He quickly lay on his side, sticking and arm underneath the bed and reaching for it. His fingers didn't even brush the spine.

 _Damnit_ , he thought as water began pouring into the room. He tilted his head, sticking his torso underneath the bed and grabbed the book, shoving it into a wet bag and sealing it with trembling hands and fumbling fingers. He sighed with relief, discovering that the water had only touched the book for a few seconds. _Let's hope there's no lasting damage, or L's gonna have my head_.

He wriggled his way back out from under the bed, a feat made significantly easier by the water that now filled the room. He grabbed the wet bags in his arms and kicked his way out of the room, meeting Mello in the hallway. Mello tilted his head. _Anything good_?

Matt shrugged, and Mello shrugged back. He pointed at the stairs and they swam down into the rest of the now-flooded house.

They swam down to the furthest end of the house, through and open door, and into a library. L raised his eyebrows, eyeing the books lining the shelves. _Who knows what could be in there_ , he thought, but sighed in resignation. "Don't bother," he said, rather disappointedly, as Mello made for one of the shelves. "This part was underwater long before you smashed the door. Look at the lakeweed," and, true enough, tiny shoots of young lakeweed were dancing in the water, sprouting from the walls, books, and furniture. "Any useful information would have been destroyed by now."

Matt blew a stream of bubbles, pointing at a painting that still, miraculously, clung to the wall. "He looks familiar," Near said, frowning at the portrait of the man.

"It's Isaac Anwhistle; Josephine Anwhistle's late husband," L said. Mello made to remove the painting and frowned. He tugged again, but the painting refused to give.

"That's odd," Near commented.

Near snapped his fingers. "Maybe it's like a hidden door. Try removing it by one edge, only." Mello scowled, but did as he said anyways, lifting one edge of the painting. It swung out easily, paint dissipating and blurring in the water, the other side of the painting still attached by a number of hidden hinges.

"Very good, Near," L praised, and Near smiled softly. Mello crossed his arms.

Matt smacked Mello, getting his attention. He pointed at the wall that the painting had been concealing, and L's eyebrows shot up, diving into his mess of wild black locks. There was a small metal door on the wall, a combination dial embeded in it.

"A safe," Near said, stating the obvious.

Mello tugged on the handle and shrugged. "It needs a combination," L said. "Think; what was something important to Josephine Anwhistle?"

"Grammar?" Near offered half-heartedly.

"All right, give it a try," L said.

Mello swam up right in front of the dial, putting the camera strapped to his chest right next to the dial, giving L and Near a clear view of the lack of letters. _Numbers, genius_.

"Convert the letter to numbers," L suggested. "G is the seventh letter, and so on. Seven, eighteen, one, thirteen, thirteen, one, eighteen."

Mello spun the dial and shook his head. Matt held up three fingers. "The combination isn't going to be one number, Matt," Near said.

Matt shook his head and waved the three fingers next to the dial. "Most standard-issue locks only have three numbers for a combination," L translated. "Am I right?" Matt nodded.

"All right," L said again. "Three-letter things that were important to Josephine Anwhistle."

Matt pointed at the safe, then the painting, then moved his pointer finger back and forth between the two. _The safe could have been Ike's_.

"That's it!" Near shouted, and the other three jumped. The younger boy had never been so loud before. "Ike," he said, calmer this time. "The combination's Ike. Nine, eleven, five."

Mello spun the dial and was about to pull the door open when L said, "Wait." Mello froze.

"The house is full of water, and there is a possibility that the interior of that safe is the only dry spot left of the Anwhistle property," L said. "There's a possibility that there are documents, photographs, or possibly even electronics, in that safe. If you open it now, then we risk flooding and destroying any evidence that could be in there."

"What do you propose they do?" Near asked.

L tugged on his lower lip for a moment, thoughtful. "There wouldn't happen to be a hardware store in the village, would there?"

xxx

Larry stood in his clown costume, peeking from the corner of his eye out the grimy window as he took a customer's order. He watched as two young men dressed inconspicuously in wet suits and diving gear flapped their way down the street (Why were they still wearing flippers?), gathering more than a couple of strange looks from passerby as they argued incessantly. The fact that they were toting a chainsaw between the two of them did not help in the slightest.

Larry frowned, pen wandering off the edge of his notepad, tuning out the words of the customer in front of him. _Wet suits, chainsaw_. . . he wrinkled his brow. _Is it possible that they_ –

"Hey, waiter!" he was snapped out of his thoughts by the man sitting at the table in front of him, who looked rather disgruntled. "I've been saying that I want a Cheer-up Cheeseburger for the past five minutes!"

"Right away, sir," Larry scribbled the order down and turned on his heel, heading for the kitchen. As he walked, he flipped to a different page on the notepad, jotting down a quick note, then ripped both out, tucking one in his pocket and sliding the other across the counter towards the sole chef working that night. The man picked up the sheet, and frowned at what was not a customer's order, but, rather, a cryptic and nonsensical note. He looked up to call out to the waiter but was met with a jingle of the bell over the door, and the sight of a man dressed in a clown costume racing down the street, dodging cars and attracting a suspicious look from two sensible-looking young men dressed in wetsuits and carrying a chainsaw.

The chef glanced down at the note one more time, before shrugging and crumpling it up and tossing it into the trash.

* * *

Sorry for not updating as much lately! I've been pretty lax lately (not just about my writing, about pretty much everything), and haven't gotten much done. I'm also on vacation right now (I'm in Portland), and it's been pretty cool. My favortie part is definitely Powell's City of Books. I've spent almost three hundred dollars on books in the past few days XD I've just started reading _The Cases That Haunt Us_ , and it's honestly really good; offers some really in-depth looks at criminal psychology


	7. Chapter 7: Between a Wall and a Hard Pla

The chainsaw came to life with a whirr, which sounded rather peculiar underwater, sending a steady stream of tiny bubbles rising up and collecting against the roof (or, in this case, the opposite wall).

Matt held it against the wall and pushed it through. But they hadn't even gone through half an inch of the wall when there was a screaming, grating sound that sent shivers down their spine cut through the water, and the chainsaw slowed. Matt quickly turned it off and pulled it back. Mello swore, bubbles rising from his mouth. The teeth of the saw had been dulled and bent, and the wall not even halfway penetrated.

"Well, that complicates things," L sighed.

Matt peered through the split in the wall, holding the camera to peer through.

"Metal," Near said. "The walls are reinforced with steel."

"That explains how the walls haven't rotted yet," L said.

"How are they supposed to get through it now?" Near asked.

L sighed, scratching the back of his head. "Matt, Mello, would it be possible for you two to make another stop at the hardware store? Get a carbide blade, this time. And sharpen it."

xxx

It was hours later, after the Anxious Clown restaurant had closed and the citizens of the small town had all gone to bed, when the click of a lock being picked open and the quite jangle of a bell sounded through a restaurant. A gloved hand reached into the trash can, delicately removing a crumpled-up sheet of notepad paper buried under a grimy mess of food and wrappers. The hooded intruder scanned the words on the sheet, and there was a sharp intake of breath, followed by a quiet, sinister chuckle.

The figure tucked the note in their pocket, and rushed out of the restaurant, jogging down the streets of town. As the faceless character melted into the shadows, a sudden breeze snagged the sheet of paper, sending it fluttering away, smacking against a window, where it stayed for the rest of the week, glued to the window by the grease all over its surface.

And this is why, when the inhabitant of the room, a fifty-three year old retired lawyer with a troublesome hip, woke up in the morning, she was greeted with the words,

 _My hovely Barbara,_

 _My phriends have been must inbelievable of late; they just wom't listev! They even tared to laugh in my face when I claimed you were de most wonderful person in the world! Put, don't wurry, my luve. I put them in their place._

 _I now have four restraining orders against me (something about 'trying to kill him with uncooked spaghetti)._

 _Please come bail me out._

 _Your desperate lover, Victor Declivity Flood_.

xxx

Mello stood, staring at the safe sitting on the table, rimmed with jagged metal. "So, is anyone going to open it, or what?" he asked, wringing a lock of his silky blond hair, which, he was now certain, would forever stink slightly of lakewater.

L strode forwards, spinning the combination. There was a click and Near tugged the door open.

Matt peered in. "It's a box," he said, somewhat disappointedly.

"And a book," Near added, taking out the book, holding the slightly damp, leather-bound volume gingerly.

L leaned over his shoulder. "An Incomplete History of Secret Organizations?" he reached over Near's shoulder, lifting the cover. He quickly scanned the first page. "Have any of you ever heard of an organization called the V.F.D. before?"

Mello and Near shook their heads fervently, and Matt shrugged. "Nope."

"Strange," L murmured. "It's come up numerous times, not just in here," he tapped the sticky note bearing the title of the book that he had pinned up on the murder board, "But _everywhere_ ," he waved his arm at the jumbo-sized bulletin board.

"Let's not jump to conclusions just yet," Matt said. "Let's open the box, first."

L huffed, obviously incensed, but bent down and peered at the keyhole of the box, anyways. "No key in the safe, I presume?" Near shook his head. "Very well. Mello, hairpin, please?"

"Why do you just assume that I have a –"

"Can it," Matt leaned over, plucking a bobby pin out of Mello's bob. "Oh, like you needed it anyways," he snapped at Mello, who spluttered indignantly as L bent the pin in half.

L bent one half of the pin and crouched down, inserting the two ends into the lock, sticking the end of his tongue out of his mouth in concentration as he wiggled them about. He grinned as there was a click. "And, we're in."

He lifted the tarnished lid, and the group peered in.

"Photographs," Near finally said. "They're photographs."

"Weird photographs," Mello added. He held up one yellowing memento and frowned. "Hey, this is the same photo of the piano that Montgomery had."

"That could have significance," L said, pinning it up over the original, slightly newer-looking piano photograph.

"Hey," Matt waved a photo under L's nose. "Check this out," the two leaned in over it. "That's Josephine and Isaac," he said, pointing at the couple. "And these are Bertrand and Beatrice Baudelaire." his finger trailed to another couple.

"They're at the Lucky Smells Lumbermill, it seems," L commented, pointing at the name on the smokestacks in the background.

"The name just screams Olaf," Matt grumbled, pinning the photographs up and unravelling a new spool of string.

L peered into the box again and cocked an eyebrow. "Well, now, this is interesting," he sifted through a bunch of (to him) meaningless other items. "Do these spyglasses," he said, holding it out for the successors to see, "Look familiar to you?"

Matt squinted at it. Josephine and Isaac Anwhistle were standing in what looked like a lion den, dressed in camouflage and safari gear. Lions circled them, but not viciously, as one might expect but, rather, nuzzling their sides and lying submissively at their sides. The two were grinning widely, holding their spyglasses above their heads as if they were – "Hey!" he said. "Dr. Montgomery had the same one!"

"My thoughts, exactly," L said. "And, look closer; the spyglasses all have a strange, grated cover at the end. What does it look like to you?"

"An eye?" Matt suggested.

"Looks like nonsense to me," Mello grumbled.

"I'm guessing _that_ ," he pointed at the photograph, "Is the symbol of the V.F.D." L said.

"Very astute," Near commented.

L grinned. "Well, this is great! We're finally getting somewhere." he pinned the photograph up on the board and began scribbling on another sticky note. "By the way, Near, Mello," he said. "You two have been quiet today; you're normally so argumentative, is something wrong?"

Mello started, and Near faltered in his hair-twirling. "Nothing's wrong," Mello said, a bit too quickly.

"Just too busy listening to your genius deductions," Near monotoned.

L was known for many things; understanding the emotions of other people was not one of them. So far be it for everybody present to be unsurprised when he simply rolled his eyes and got back to work, completely missing the troubled glances Mello and Near shot each other.

xxx

Esmé tapped her perfectly manicured nails on the dashboard of the car, bubbling with annoyance. "It's been two days, and we've barely gotten anywhere!" she snarled.

"Maybe we'd move faster if you got out of the car," Fernalf grumbled under his breath.

"What was that?" Esmé shrieked. "Why, you – oh, please hold," she cut off as her phone began ringing.

"You have service out here?" Olaf asked incredulously.

"I pay them three hundred dollars a month, they'd _better_ be giving me good coverage," Esmé tapped a button on the phone. "Yes?"

"It's confirmed," a robotic voice spoke from the other end, distorted through layers of voice synthesizers. "He knows."

Esmé blinked. "Pardon?"

"You heard me the first time," the filtered voice deadpanned. "I'm expecting you to hold up your end of the bargain."

"Yes, yes," she snarled, before snapping the phone shut with a hiss of annoyance. Her hand trembled as she squeezed the phone tighter, and there was a crack as the plastic of the no-longer in device crumbled in her grip.

"What in the world has gotten into you?" Olaf snapped, similarly to her phone.

Esmé's whole body shook with fury as she tossed the crumbling remains of her mobile out the window. "Oh, you are not going to _believe_ this. . ."

xxx

There was the sound of snapping and the other end of the line dissolved into static. He snapped the phone shut, shrugging as he tossed it out the window, grinning, despite himself, at the crunch that followed soon after as a passing car drove over the unfortunate mobile. Regrettable, certainly, but much preferable to having _him_ track his call

He reclined in the moldy, moth-eaten chair, kicking his feet up onto the dusty coffee desk that the five-dollar-a-night motel had been thoughtful enough to provide him with. The single light fixture hanging from the ceiling quivered as the prostitute residing upstairs took care of her, ahem, _thriving business_. He rolled his eyes, picking up his sound-cancelling headphones from where he had placed them on the desk. He had given up on banging on the ceiling after the third night.

He placed his headphones over his ears, flopping onto the stinking, creaking bed, closing his eyes and resigning himself to a long night.

xxx

Olaf stroked his chin. "Well, that's just ridiculous."

"Darling, this man has nothing to gain from lying about this!" Esmé protested. "He's telling the truth; we are about to be in, for sure; in _jail_!"

"Oh, love," Olaf said, wagging his finger. "You forget one crucial thing," he grinned. "We're not the _Fire Department_ for nothing."

Esmé blinked, looking confused, for a few seconds, before comprehension crossed her face, and she broke into mad laughter.

* * *

Who do you guys think this mystery fella is? Hint: he's someone who I've used in all of my past Death Note fics and holds a grudge against L (this should be really easy)


	8. NOTICE!

**Memento Mori is being rewritten!**

 **Sorry that the first update you're getting in a year is this (´∀｀；** **) But I've recently finished the Netflix series (yes, I know it's terrible, but I like the crappy humour) and my writing style has changed a lot since last year.**

 **I also have a lot of things going on in my own life right now (trying to keep my grades up, extracurricular activities, and just a lot of shit in general), so, unfortunately, as much as it pains me to say, fanfiction is not the top priority in my life right now (although I do enjoy it the most).**

 **Please just try to bear with me while I alter the first few chapters. The new ones will be posted soon!**

 **Thanks for sticking around! m9っ** **`･** **ω･** **´)**


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